Renegade

Renegade
Kaitlyn Rice

He's the bad boy who's no longer off-limitsShe's the good girl who needs a safe manCould it be the sea-green bandanna knotted in his blond hair? Or maybe it's the quicksilver eyes that sparkle with laughter before they deepen to hurricane-gray.Whatever it is, bad-boy Riley Collins, the idol of Tracy Gilbert's high-school years, is back in town, and too sexy, too dangerous–too close–for Tracy's precarious peace of mind. With all her systems on high alert, and caring for her young daughter uppermost in her mind, she vows to keep her distance.That was the plan–until Tracy's boss assigns her to help Riley get his fledgling business under way. Tracy soon finds that the new business isn't the only thing Riley–or she, for that matter–wants to get going.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re hanging out in my backyard?”

“I came by to see you, Riley,” Tracy said, “and when no one answered the door, I came back to admire the view. It’s better from your yard.”

Riley grinned. “You can swing on my swing set anytime, little girl.”

Tracy’s regard touched on his mouth, then dropped down his torso again. When the blood circled back around to her brain and she homed in on his gleaming eyes, she sighed, resisting another urge to chomp her nails.

“What do you want?” he asked in a voice that was in no way like the one he’d used when she was a child. This was soft, all right, but it was rich with suggestion.

She frowned.

“You said you came to see me,” he reminded her.

She gazed at the hair that moved around his head as he shook it. She’d driven over here to ask him to leave, but now the words seemed harsh. “Don’t get too comfortable in this town,” she said. “And I’m saying that for your own sake. You won’t fit in.”

His eyes darkened ominously. “You don’t think I will?”

“No.”

“Then watch me.”

Dear Reader,

I love a bad boy–good girl story. Riley Collins, the renegade hero in this novel, was fun to write because he’s my favorite kind of bad boy—one who has matured enough to be responsible, but who has kept his adventurous spirit. When I imagine the distant futures of Riley and Tracy, I picture a lifetime of fun and surprises.

In writing this story, I thought a lot about my childhood. I didn’t have a counterpart in my life, but Jacque was Riley’s female counterpart. She was the little girl from two houses down, and my first best friend. Our family situations were very different, and I admired Jacque for her ability to survive and succeed under difficult circumstances. She moved away during my early teen years, and we didn’t keep in touch. I wish we had.

I hope you enjoy Riley and Tracy’s story.

Sincerely,

Kaitlyn Rice

The Renegade

Kaitlyn Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

This one is for lifelong friends.

To Jacque, wherever you are: I still think about you.

And to Lisa:

I’m so glad we never lost touch.

Contents

Chapter One (#u1342546d-46f7-5739-883d-48593cfb6031)

Chapter Two (#u6bf71c0f-c5e1-56f0-986b-2dc213a745e1)

Chapter Three (#u81933afe-fb7f-501b-8d6b-01ec45e09ec5)

Chapter Four (#uc1f40713-4eec-5b0c-ae76-337dc09b17b7)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Tracy Gilbert closed her eyes and lifted her face to the soothing spray of the shower. As she allowed the water to flow through her hair for a final rinse, she calculated the time required to do her morning chores. First, the dry cleaner, then the grocery—the list was already in her purse. An hour should do it. Two at the most. If she told the baby-sitter she’d be home by lunchtime, she might be able to squeeze in a quick trim at Cecilia’s shop.

Turning off the tap, Tracy stepped out of the stall. She was just reaching for a towel, when she heard a door slam. Strange—the noise seemed too solid and loud to have come from an interior door. Besides, Hannah should still be asleep and she always left her bedroom door open.

Tracy’s mind scrambled to discount the sound. Claus, her cat, might have jumped down from some high perch. A passing car might have backfired. Yet the sound had been a sharp scrape of wood on wood, a span of quiet and then a jarring boom.

Her alarm grew. Neither Claus nor a car could have made that noise. Horrid possibilities flashed through her mind—a home invasion or, worse, a child kidnapped right from bed. A child lost to his or her family for five or ten years. Perhaps never seen again.

Had she locked the door last night? She thought so, but maybe that was the night before last. Was Hannah in her bed? Tracy took off down the hall, wrapping the towel around herself on the way. When she reached the door of her daughter’s bedroom and looked in, she breathed a sigh of relief. She stood there a moment, only vaguely aware of the puddle accumulating on the floor at her feet.

Hannah was fine. Her tiny, four-year-old frame was sprawled sideways on the narrow bed. Her glossy black hair fell over one cheek; her feet lay butted against the wall. Most important, her back moved gently up and down as she breathed. Slowly. Deeply. She was still asleep.